Science and Songs
by amberpire
Summary: "Your seduction techniques could use a little work." Established Johnlock. PWP.


**Disclaimer:** _I own nothing._

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_Science and Songs_

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"That angle creates the illusion that you have several more chins than you actually do, John."

The book the doctor had been reading falls open on his chest. John uses his elbows to straighten his position and turns irritated eyes toward Sherlock, his attention not even on the man beside him, but on an open file with various news clippings and fuzzy photographs held to the sides with paperclips.

"Your seduction techniques could use a little work," John mumbles. He snaps the book closed and places it on the bedside table.

"What makes you think I'm trying to seduce you?" Sherlock still hasn't looked up, eyes flicking at too impossible a speed for him to actually be reading the material, though John doesn't doubt that he could recite every word with his eyes closed if dared.

"You always make comments about my appearance whenever your carnal instincts become too loud for you to ignore." John props his cheek on bent knuckles and watches the curl of Sherlock's lips briefly flex his profile. "I feel like it's worth pointing out that saying _negative_ things about my appearance isn't exactly the best way to have me indulge in those carnal instincts of yours."

The curve of a question mark lifts Sherlock's brow. The file closes and with the slightest flick of his wrist, it's sent spiraling to the bedroom floor. It's then that Sherlock finally turns to face the other man, amusement warming his normally icy gaze. "Asking you what exactly is the best way would be rather redundant, don't you think?"

"I'm assuming that's a rhetorical question-"

Naturally, Sherlock is very good at pleasing a body. Practice was hardly needed, really – Sherlock makes a living out of noticing every single detail, no matter how minute, and his instincts, carnal and otherwise, are rarely wrong. The first time was a little slower, but Sherlock gains confidence in knowledge and it only took one night for him to add John's body to the impossibly long list of things he excels at.

Clothing flies haphazardly from the bed, arms and legs tangling like ribbons. Sherlock's long body dominates the doctor's easily and captures the man's mouth in a brain-dissolving kiss. He can see the book he had been reading just minutes before in his peripherals and he can't for the life of him remember the title.

Sherlock has always had that effect on him, captivating him so completely, nothing else registers. Really, this progression of their relationship – from flatmates to partners to friends to lovers – was inevitable. John has toyed with words like 'fate' and 'destiny', but he's always come back to physics. There are laws. Certain scenarios produce certain results; it's not magical, his love for Sherlock. It's science.

Open-mouthed kisses are littered over the expanse of John's now naked chest. Without looking, Sherlock reaches for the drawer of the bedside table and nearly rips it clear out in his haste; John chuckles, licking his lips when Sherlock's hand reappears with a bottle of half-empty lube. Sherlock snakes his body over John's and the doctor can feel a hardness pressing against his thigh. His heartbeat thunders in his ears.

For a few moments, Sherlock does nothing but stare down at him, eyes shifting quickly between John's. John knows this look, has seen it a thousand times when they're searching for the key that will solve a case. It's a probing look, piercing, like John's skin is transparent. It used to unnerve him, but now he recognizes it as Sherlock simply being Sherlock; the man is engraining this into the walls of his mind palace.

Finally, Sherlock's eyes sharpen as he returns to the present. A smile crooks one side of his mouth. "Turn over."

When he was in the service, John had had a hard time taking even benign instructions from his superiors. But with Sherlock, his order concrete in a way that guarantees compliance, there is not a hint of hesitation. John mirrors the man's grin, whispers, "Yes, sir," and promptly obeys.

The lube tingles in all the right ways. Sherlock's fingers are teasing and slow and no amount of begging convinces him to get on with it. "You're a bloody masochist," John manages through his moans, to which Sherlock merely laughs. John is little more than a quivering pile of limbs by the time Sherlock finally clicks the bottle closed and tosses it aside, positioning himself before the other man. He enters painfully slowly, every inch making it that much more difficult for John to remain lucid. When the two are as close as flesh allows, a moan loud enough to leave John concerned of waking Mrs. Hudson fills the room.

John swears that Sherlock must spend his nights sharpening his cheekbones on whetstone; the skin of his back sears as if being split open as the detective languidly races the side of his face along his trembling spine. Sherlock's sharp jaw dips onto his nape and a current of hot breath curls like smoke against the doctor's neck. "Judging by the noise you just made, I believe it's fair to claim that you enjoyed that?"

The mattress gives a low sound as John dares to shift his hips beneath Sherlock's chest, angling them upward to allow better leverage and the sensation of being filled is magnified. Like the strings on Sherlock's violin being plucked, music is pulled out of him in a tremor. He might have been embarrassed about the volume and the sheer libidinous nature of the moan, but as it is, John is a little distracted by the sultry tongue currently occupying the inside of his ear.

"Ah, mm, y-yes, yes."

A committal sound swells in Sherlock's throat. "You're not exactly the most articulate creature under these circumstances."

"Obviously," John retorts, knuckles paling as his hands crunch the sheets into fist-sized balls.

Something akin to laughter resonates in Sherlock's chest. "That's my line," he whispers, thrusting in and out with no warning, blowing a few more wanton notes from John's windpipe. Sherlock's hands are clenched around the other man's sides, his long and tenuous fingers settling in the shallow valleys between John's ribs. Given the situation, one would expect all of someone's personal restraints to come unraveled at this point, but even now Sherlock is reigning himself in. John can tell by the tightening of his hands when they even suggest trembling.

John, however, is much more willing to uncoil; he closes his eyes and allows himself to fully surrender, not as a soldier in war but as a lover with a fighter. The metronomic movements of Sherlock's hips is a rhythm he can't help but get lost in, the _in and out in and out_ like the steady beat of a drum. John's open mouth pants against the sheets as Sherlock successfully loosens every muscle in his body until he's certain he will simply melt into the mattress.

A degree of rigidness, almost hesitance remains in Sherlock, always – it has remained an obstacle through every stage of their relationship. While John isn't obtuse enough to say that he _understands_ Sherlock Holmes, even after everything, he still has the capacity to _get_ it. Explaining the enigma that is Sherlock is a task not even the best-read, most intelligent and well-consulted citizens of England could manage (and if people think he's exaggerating, then they _really_ don't know Sherlock). But John is not dim and he likes to think that out of the very small circle of people Sherlock bothers to spare feelings for, it's him who gets him the best. John knows the comfort that lies in control, in being collected. It leaves no room for error, for surprise, and everyone knows the safest place to be is one step ahead. If Sherlock allowed himself to fully relax, to really let go or, God forbid, step back and let someone else, even John, _especially_ John, take the reigns, it opened too large of a window of opportunity for something to go wrong. It's no secret that Sherlock thoroughly enjoys the thrill of organized chaos, but only when he's the composer.

John has never attempted to take the lead, sexually speaking or otherwise, partly because he genuinely enjoys being in the more submissive position, but also because he's almost afraid to try. It took John months to coax Sherlock into more than just a few kisses at night because, for once in his life, John was experienced in a field that the detective wasn't. But once Sherlock figured out the mechanics, once he had examined John like a piece of vital evidence and memorized every inch of his body, he took the most fitting and familiar role: the leader, the top. This way he could gauge every movement John made and react as necessary. Nothing could catch him off guard. John feared that trying to switch the roles would shake Sherlock too much and build the wall of hesitance that much higher.

But John is so eager to know what it must feel like to hold the strings, to have Sherlock at his mercy. The thought is so appealing that John nearly comes just imagining it, picturing Sherlock's expression at the height of climax. He's never actually seen it, having always been face-down or with Sherlock's face buried into his shoulder. John's eyes open, using all of his willpower to pull his hips down, interrupting the rather nice series of thrusts. Sherlock grunts, one hand planting itself to the side of John on the mattress, the other flattening on the man's back.

"What?" He says it solidly, but there is a breathy edge, and John knows he's teetering on the tip. "Did I hurt you?"

If John wasn't completely enveloped by his need to orgasm, he probably would have smiled fondly at the fact that Sherlock's first concern was his well-being. Instead, John shakes his head, moaning when the tip of his cock is teased by the sheets. "No, I just, I want to try something."

John doesn't have to see Sherlock's face to know that irritation is wrinkling his brow. "Is now really the time for experimenting –"

"Now is the perfect time for experimenting, actually." John rolls over, now face-to-face with a very breathless Sherlock. His waxen complexion is flushed a wonderful shade of pink, pupils blown open, a few loose curls of dark hair stamped with sweat to his forehead. Grinning, John threads his fingers into the other man's hair, flexing them and watching as something flickers in Sherlock's eyes – unease, resistance. "I want to try something," John repeats.

"Care to elaborate? Or are you going to talk me soft?"

John considers replying with an _as if_ and an eye roll, but he suspects that it would be a little too 1990's American teenage girl. In lieu of that he uses the same hand that had slithered through Sherlock's hair to take hold of his chin between his thumb and forefinger, melting their lips into a kiss. Sherlock's chest meets John's as the two men breathe, cocks coming into aching contact that makes John release a muffled moan against Sherlock's mouth. As fulfilling as the kiss is, igniting fireworks in every part of his body, John can still feel the tension in Sherlock's lips, the instinctual way Sherlock tries to gain control of the kiss.

Separating, John keeps his lips close enough so Sherlock can swallow his words – "Follow my lead."

Sherlock meets the doctor's eyes and John doesn't have to be as observant as the detective to see the hesitance in his eyes. It's clear as day. Sherlock's mouth jumps open only to close with no sound, a muscle fluttering in his cheek.

"Trust me," John breathes, winding a hand out of sight to run two fingers along the thick curve of Sherlock's cock. He relishes in the way Sherlock's eyes almost close and the distinct quiver in his throat.

Sherlock gives a sharp nod of consent as if expressing it verbally would be jeopardizing his pride. John takes it as it is, occupying his lover with another kiss as he forces the two into a sitting position. Sherlock's hands naturally grip the slopes of John's hips like handles, steering the way they roll up to meet him, but John ropes each wrist with his fingers and pulls them away. There is clear resistance at first and John sincerely hopes he doesn't have to wrestle Sherlock into this. He's about to sit back and dismiss the whole idea when the other man finally relents, allowing John to guide him down to the mattress, hands pinned above his head.

To not take advantage of the position Sherlock is currently in would be blasphemy, really – a proper sin. John has seen Sherlock naked increasingly frequently as the years have progressed, but to have it directly under him, saddled between his legs, is an entirely new experience. John sits back and feels Sherlock breathing beneath him, the muscles and tendons shifting with every movement. Sherlock is pale on a good day, but washed in the shaft of white moonlight from the bedroom window, he is a ghost. John bends to lick the creamy skin and nibble it sparingly. The man's chest lifts just slightly from the bed like John is performing some kind of magic trick, summoning him into flight.

Egged on by his very impatient, incredibly straining cock, John refocuses, pushing himself up again and meeting Sherlock's gaze. The detective is breathing harder now and his hands are crushed into fists, like he's hanging onto something desperate. John feels like he should say something to comfort him, to remove the uncertainty from his eyes, but the ability to form coherent thoughts, let alone sentences, has long abandoned him and actions speak much louder, anyway.

John lifts himself and reaches for Sherlock's cock, taking it firmly and noting the jump of both of Sherlock's legs. Biting back a grin, John steers the member to his entrance – it takes some maneuvering, and the angle is a little difficult to sustain at first, but once the head has slipped in, John lets go. He sinks on Sherlock's cock until their bodies are flush together and John feels full, white bliss sprinkling the corners of his vision. Through the mist he sees his lover's face contort into something beautiful. The man's eyes roll back before closing, mouth open, and his hands move to hover just above John's thighs. Panting, John guides them back to his hips, allowing him to be a co-pilot for now.

When John rocks his hips, a gasp escapes Sherlock's open mouth. The sound startles him, the man's cobalt eyes opening and his teeth clamping tightly over his lip. The hands on his hips squeeze tightly, trying to slow the pace, but John shakes his head. "Sherlock," he half warns, half moans, and with great effort the detective relaxes his fingers.

John has been fucked an awful lot by Sherlock, but this position caters to him in a special way. It's John who controls how fast, how deep, and how hard the two slide together. It's Sherlock's body beneath him in full view, flesh sweat-gleamed and hot beneath his hands. John's pulling the strings, and with each roll of his hips, every cry of his name, he feels the coiled wires that keep Sherlock so tightly wound begin to untangle. Of course, Sherlock puts up an impressive fight – the man has the resolve of a mountain – but eventually, as ecstasy snakes through their groins and sets every nerve in its wake on fire, Sherlock releases. John keeps his eyes open to catch every moment of Sherlock's climax rippling through his face, the crinkling of his eyes and the way he chants _John_ like it's a holy prayer –the overall absence of tension. It leaves John in such deep awe that his orgasm narrows his vision into tunnels. With the way his head is spinning, he wouldn't be surprised if he lost consciousness and, judging by Sherlock's rapid breathing, he might, too.

Despite feeling like an earthquake has erupted inside of him, John manages to lift off of Sherlock just enough to crash beside and slightly on top of him, cheek cradled in the dip of the detective's shoulder. Neither speak for several minutes following, the room listening to nothing but their breathing as it evens out and the sound of late night traffic filtering in through the cracked window. When the silence stretches for so long John thinks Sherlock might have fallen asleep, he raises his head to check and finds Sherlock staring very intently back at him, as if he had been doing just that since he collapsed.

John tries to speak the words in his mouth but a raspy breath comes out instead. Coughing tightly into his fist, he tries again. "Uhm, I, that was –"

"Good," Sherlock interjects, head falling back onto the mattress. The hints of a smile are forming at the corners of his mouth. "I should give you more credit, John. Not all of your ideas are terrible."

"You should write a book. No, really. You can call it 'How To Kill the Mood in Seven Words or Less'."

"That's one of your more terrible ideas."

Had John feathers, he would have ruffled them in contempt, but instead he just chuckles, guiding Sherlock into a kiss that muffles his grin. He couldn't withstand it even if he wanted to; there are laws.

Resisting things like science is pretty futile, after all.

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**A/N:** _A friend of mine came over today and as we were watching the second season I was shamefully overwhelmed with the horrible truth that I had not written any Johnlock fanfiction. What kind of person am I? Believe it or not, this fic was inspired by just two words - "Yes, sir" - and somehow I built all of this around it.__  
_

_But. Smut. Buttsmut. _

_All is good in the world._


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